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A creative writing assignment:add to the story!

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Mon May 13, 2019 6:47 pm
uphollandgoon says...

Prompt: What are the monsters that follow us? (STRANGER THINGS QUESTION MARK?)
Teens that have the same monster on their back get together and try to defeat it.
Three kids: two boys, a girl. Plus the monster that follows them. One of the boys and the girl are in the 11th grade, while the other younger boy is in the 9th: they are in high school.
-The monster is whatever the first writer wants, but of course can evolve and be destroyed/ defeated how the last writer wants.
-Any additional characters that are need of course can be added and any plot settings that are necessary for the writers wants.
-Try and use horror tropes when writing scary parts in your story like; Running through woods in the dark, let’s split up, alone in the old dark house.

This story starts with a lonely town in a middle of nowhere-- well, nowhere anyone would know. A small town, where nothing happens to the rest of the people of this town. My family just moved to Sparksville. Trust me when I say they thought we were aliens; It was as if we came with four eyes, long hairs from our ears, and weird futuristic boxes for hands. Technology has yet to come to the modern age. I mean, the cell service is one bar at best. The worst thing is that I’m starting high school with kids that have grown up with each other. Again, I’m an outsider.
“Mom where’s my sketchbook? It’s not in my suitcase, and I swear that I put it there.”
“Uhm, I think that I threw it away”, she said without conviction.
“WHAT? HOW DARE YOU! you know what it means to me,” I said with a sob stuck in my throat. I doubt she threw it away, but she might as well have. I bet she gave it to my therapist back at home, so he could analyse it in his very condescending way and report back to my mother like the good soldier he is.
“Can you ask HIM to send it back when his is done psychoanalyzing me? ” I said.
“ I threw it away and I don’t understand why you still wanted it? It was old and torn in multiple places, so just let it go. How about to go into town and get a new sketchbook just as good as the old one, or… even better, what about on of the ones with brown pages I know you like, I’ll pay for it.”
“Fine!, but don’t ever do that again without talking to me first, I had a lot of important things in that and now they’re all gone”
“Well, honey, think of this as a totally fresh start; New town, new school, new sketchbook!”
I didn’t like the idea that I’d never see my old sketchbook again but I couldn’t help feeling elated at the thought of getting a brand new one with that new book smell. But, first I had to unpack, that’s what I was dreading most. I didn’t take much with me and everything I did take only reminded me of what I left behind, I debated not unpacking at all. Perhaps that would be easier, leaving it all in another chapter, but I knew that wasn’t an option.
The longer I left that rough, grey, suitcase, the heavier it would grow. When I had first packed I had tried my best to fill all the space, blocking out every inch that could be consumed by the weight that always seemed to follow, but it got in anyway-- It always seemed to. My backpack, my wallet, anything and everything I carried with me. It would start out light and simple but would soon grow heavy with that unavoidable weight.
At first, I had thought it was my imagination, but then the dreams came. I could see it holding my shoulders, dragging my ankles, or sitting on my chest. It was never clear, only distant and abstract, but it followed nonetheless, and I knew very well that it was real.
It had been years like that but now, in a new town, it was far more noticeable than before. In my old house, it felt familiar, but here it felt fresh and worse than ever. Whatever it was, I could feel it waiting in my suitcase, begging to get out and explore its new home. I had hoped it would stay back with my many other belongings-- but this was no belonging. It was its own free will and its will, it seemed, was to follow.
Standing over the suitcase, I wished once again that my sketchbook was near and not far off in the hands of some distant therapist. Sometimes the weight would fade if I could attach a small part of it to paper-- only ever for a moment, but a moment of relief nonetheless.
Today was the day, the start of my first day at the new high school, the ¨new beginning¨ as my mom had put it, how dreadful. I was a complete wreck all the way here in the car. All I wanted was to be back home, the real home, before we moved here, at least back there I felt comfortable. Then we arrived. I realized I had been closing my eyes since we past the large gnarly tree back on 5th Street. I heard my mom gasp a little, I opened my eyes and looked out, it was worse than I imagined. The building looked like one of those haunted mental hospitals I would see in documentaries on Netflix. It was a huge brick building, surrounded by gnarled trees and overgrown weeds, and it looked like no one knew what windows were at the time it was built, and I was going here? I looked over at my mom with pleading in my eyes as she parked.
¨Maybe it’s not as bad as it looks.¨ She said while getting out of the car.
¨Mom, how could anything get worse than this?¨
¨At least your getting education, so-¨
¨Some children in Africa can't even get fresh water. Yeah, I know the spiel.¨ I said with irritation.
¨Well it's true. Come on I told them we'd be here by 8:30.¨
I watched her look around as if she was going to get robbed. I could tell she was uneasy about this place but she definitely would never tell me that. My point was made when she locked the car three times on the way into the building. Thanks mom. I was irritated and anxious, this was going to be interesting.

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Sun Jun 02, 2019 3:05 am
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winterwolf0100 says...

I think walking up the steps of the mental hospital-- I mean, school-- is the hardest thing I've ever done. I feel nerves begin to tickle my stomach, making me feel squirmy and uncomfortable. On top of that, my backpack seems to increase in weight with every step I take towards the door, as if both me and whatever is in it have the same idea about what to do: run. I fight to stay still as we follow a woman from the office through the halls, pushing back the instinct to leave as I try frantically to remember all of the doors the woman points out, and what they lead to. The weight in my bag seems to grow and grow throughout the entire tour, until by the end it feels as if I'm carrying a person. I look at my mom, who seems to be genuinely interested in the fact that the school used to be the town court before everyone moved away during the gold rush, and I fight back the urge to remind her that my old school used to be a bank, which, in my opinion, is much cooler.

Finally I can't take the weight in my bag anymore, and I let it slip from my shoulders, hopping from one foot to the other from the nerves this place was giving me. I can't spend the next two years of my life here. Suddenly, a desperate thought takes hold of my brain, and I choke on a sob, realizing I am going to graduate from a school in the middle of nowhere. Will colleges even accept this on my resume? How on earth am I going to convince an Ivy League that they should let a kid like me in?! For an art major, no less! I'll be stuck here forever!

My mom looks back at me, eyebrows scrunched up in confusion, and I realize not only did I drop my backpack in the middle of the hall, but I'm hopping like a maniac from one foot to the other. What if this really is a mental hospital, and I've gone insane?! What if my mom is going to leave me here? The thought almost makes me whimper, and I have to hold it back. I know my mom and therapist thought it would happen at one point or another. Depression combined with severe ADHD can really jumble a person's brain, and it was only a matter of time until I went insane anyway. Or maybe I already have, and we never actually moved to this tiny town away from civilization. My hands unconsciously grip the bottom of my shirt, pleating it in an attempt to get rid of some of my nervous energy.

My mom clears her throat, and I am jolted out of my thoughts. Her eyes travel to my backpack, then back at me, hopping from one foot to the other, and I can see worry growing in her eyes. Oh no. I know that look. Before she can say anything, I interject, "I really need to go to the bathroom. Do you have one here?" I immediately feel like palming myself in the face as I realize what I just said.

The secretary gives me a weird look, and says slowly, "Yes... it's a school." I feel my cheeks redden, and I look to my mom, silently pleading for help. She sighs.

"If you really needed to go that bad, you could've just said so." I don't think she knows how much she just saved me, but I take it without complaint.

I look back at the secretary woman, and ask, embarrassed, "Where's the men's room?" Wordlessly, she points to the end of the hall, and I run towards it. Behind me, I hear my mom picking up my backpack as I open the bathroom door. Just before it shuts, I hear her say, "Jesus, Michael! What did you put in here? Bricks?" The door shuts, cutting off the rest of whatever she was going to say. I sigh, looking in the mirror, gripping the countertop until my knuckles turn white. I look back at my reflection, my messy, brown hair, my crazed green eyes, and realize vaguely I forgot to take my medicine today, probably an added reason for my nerves being so jumbled. Outside the bathroom, a bell rings, and I hear talking fill the halls outside the door as doors open and students flood-- or, based on the size of the school, should I say trickle?-- into the halls. I sigh, looking back at my reflection. "It's going to be a long day."

Don't gobblefunk around with words.
— Roald Dahl